Rivulets
by Troodon
Summary: There is no one, no one but herself and the sky, no speeding vans or big city lights. Well, being Emily takes some getting used to. A post 'Loss' rumination.


A/N: So I was running through the sprinkler the other night (yaahhoo for simple pleasures!) when this popped into my head, demanding attention and form. Takes place after "Loss", so you can probably guess who the character is. I'm concerned that the distinction between "she" and "Emily" may be written confusingly, so any thoughts on that would be helpful. To that end, any constructive comments would be much appreciated!

_Disclaimer: The following is a piece of fanfiction. No money is made off this. There is no copyright infringement intended; all characters, episodes and backgrounds belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC._

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**Rivulets**

The kids are like a herd of elephants on adrenaline highs. They're probably as loud, their high young voices shouting, echoing up the quiet suburban street. They're running through the sprinkler, squealing as the cool water slaps against bare legs, trampling the dewy grass underfoot. Careless, happy, laughing with the loose abandon of never knowing the lack of anything.

Emily was once like them. She is passing by, in her nondescript grey sedan. It's just past four. She's just gotten off work. She can't remember ever going home so early. Lucky, she supposes, or a reward for good work, as her boss would like her to believe. Either that, or he's going to fire her soon.

Safe inside her car, Emily watches the children's smiles, the light on their hair, the life in their eyes. She thinks of what-might-have-been. As she looks, almost hungrily, one boy slips. He falls with a startled yowl, lost in the helicopter spray.

The kids laugh even more, and tease, and drag the boy upwards again. He leaps up with a grass stain on his shirt, ready for another round.

Emily scans the street, checking all the mirrors before unlocking the doors. She gets slowly out of her car, unfolding her tall frame from the seat like a careful puppeteer, determined not to tangle the strings. Emily lives a steady, slow life, now. Once, she can't ever remember driving without a hand on the horn and a lead foot on the pedal.

But this is today. Today Emily drives like she's taking a driving exam, like a cautious grandmother near a school zone. She doesn't like the sound of wheels squealing, spinning on the blacktop. She jumps when motorcycles cruise by without a muffler. Emily will be okay with safety over speed. Emily's fine with living an ordinary life, living in a small white house in the suburbs with a picket fence, fine with a safe and equally dull job, fine with this slow, mundane life that would be utterly appealing to anyone except for -

Then again, Emily takes some getting used to.

She locks the car, even though a stolen flowerpot would have been news in this area. She locks everything, now. Her front door has two deadbolts. Emily keeps telling herself that she's being stupid, but she still installed them, didn't she?

The kids are yelling again, screaming about something exciting. She glances at them with an odd, wistful smile on her lips, pausing to watch them play on her next door neighbour's lawn. One girl has unscrewed the sprinkler from the hose and decided to play firefighter. The girl whips the hose upwards and twirls it, like a great, snake-like lasso.

She thinks that the children already had too many water fights. The grass on the other side of the fence is lush, green, starkly contrasted with her own desert-like fauna. She never bothers with her own lawn, never could sum up the energy. Emily tells herself it's because she wants to conserve water. She knows it's because caring for Emily's lawn means acceptance. And she still can't let go of that –

A lash of water hits Emily squarely across the face. She gasps and ducks down. Water runs in cool rivulets down her blouse and pool in the corners of her shoulder bag. She is shocked out of her thoughts.

The kids gulp. One runs up and stops short in hesitation.

Emily's wet to the skin. Emily blinks. She's reminded of hot summer afternoons, like this one, and pool-side confessionals, and silly water fights with her little brother before they grew up and became immersed in grown-up battles. She regrets, then, that she has never run through a sprinkler.

She focuses on the small boy in front of her, her racing heart steadying. He was the one who fell, and he's standing sturdily before her. There's a scrape on his knee. He's saying sorry, or something. Emily realizes she doesn't need an apology.

Bending down, Emily says softly that it doesn't matter. It's only water, she reassures him. Little things like that, water in her shoes or dirt on her doorstep, they don't get to her anymore like they used to. Emily has been good for her, that way. Be grateful, be appreciative, and all that. Thanksgiving has taken on a whole new meaning for her.

Her blue eyes warm as she looks at him, the small, dishevelled, muddy boy.

"Sorry," the boy's saying again, sheepish.

Emily shakes her head. "You need a bandage for your knee," she says instead, rubbing her shoulder absently with a wet hand. "Wait here and I'll get you one, okay?"

He nods. His curious young eyes follow her into the house, this strange neighbour whom he'd never talked to. A moment later Emily reappears, wiping off the scrape on his knee with a gentle cloth, sticking a fat waterproof band-aid over the cut.

He smiles his thanks. She feels her eyes crinkle in response. She lets him go back to his friends, his games, his whole world.

Left behind in Emily's world, she sits on the hard couch and thinks. After a while she flips off the TV, cutting off the mindless shows she never used to have the time to watch. Now Emily depends on them, and she realizes how stagnant her days are, what a corner she has confined herself to.

It's been a year.

On an impulse she heads to the garage and fumbles for her own sprinkler. She's never used it. Her own lawn is yellowing, baked to sharp, dry crisps under the sun. She sneaks outside into the dim night, uncoils the hose and hooks up the sprinkler.

Gradually the sprinkler turns as the water surges in from the pipes. The circling spray quickens, flashes across her legs, cool and stinging.

"Ahh!" she cries at the sudden cold. Her voice echoes, too loudly. She freezes.

For a moment she stands there, hearing nothing but the water, miniature rainfall pattering on her starved shrubs. Out of habit she gazes next door, turning her head to look up and down the street for any watching faces.

There is no one, no one but herself and the sky, no speeding vans or big city lights. She laughs at herself. Paranoid. She's Emily, watering her lawn. Tonight, right now, she is no one else. A twinge of the old pain wells up in her chest, but she's used to that.

Tentatively she takes off her slippers and slides her bare toes into the moist earth.

It feels wonderful. Her feet move through the spray in small steps, tracing a simple pattern she has never appreciated before. The ebb and the flow, what a strange welcome feeling as streaming rivulets of water trickle to her ankles.

She can't quite bring herself to dance through the sprinkler, not yet. But someday, some quiet night, Emily might.

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End file.
